Small Talk
by MistOnBirchLeaf
Summary: Delly's point of view throughout one of Peeta's therapy sessions. Not Peeta/Delly. Just friend-to-friend conversation.


**~Small Talk~ **

"Hey, Peeta," I choke out. The morning's brisk and the little bit of light filtering down to the outside dirt upon which I sit does little to warm me. Peeta's sitting as well, shackled for his own protection (and mine) and he's shivering slightly.

This is our routine: I ask questions, he answers in a cold, stilted, almost emotionless voice. He asks me questions, and I force my answers out in a subdued, squeaky voice that threatens to fall apart.

His memories are so violent, so painful to hear. He and Katniss have suffered so much—now they're together, and still they're miles apart, their minds in different realms.

Peeta coughs and starts to speak. Therapy For the Hijacked Round One.

"Katniss once sang in school. Real or not real?"

My eyebrows fly upwards, but then I quickly shrug, because I don't remember her singing. Ever.

Oh, wait. I do—I remember her the day that her father died. She was clenched over in a knot of skinny arms, trembling behind a dilapidated shed. A few words escaped her chapped lips:

"_Come, Sun, come, beams_

_Warm up the cold earth that has wintered through the frosty days_

_Arrive, birds, flee, dreams_

_Butterflies clear the wintry haze…"_

Her voice cracked then, and the lullaby broke off. I remember that one—it was the one that all toddlers were sung when they were cold at night and wailing from hunger. District 12's lullaby. Pitiful hope, the hope of sun when the Capitol eclipsed all hope of light.

Peeta clears his throat now, gazing at me steadily. "Real or not real?" he questions me. I shrug again. "I've never heard Katniss sing in school," I whisper. _The pain on her angular face…_

My turn. A memory. Anything for poor, broken Peeta to grasp at.

_A smile stretched across her face when she caught sight of the sturdy, lean arm waving at her in good-natured salute._

Gale. Her dearest friend. Her "cousin." Peeta's "rival." I scramble for another memory—anything that won't bring up pain, anger. I find nothing, and Peeta's still staring at me. I swallow, fiddling with my skirt, and begin timidly. Cheerful, honest, optimistic Delly is gone—I'm stuttering and almost squeaking in a pathetic attempt to be cheerful and encouraging for my friend's sake. For my friends' sake.

"Um, er," I begin, testing the mood of his shuttered face, "Katniss brought strawberries to my house. She always brought the best ones with Gale. He sometimes brought us turkey. Sometimes."

Peeta's face looks indifferent—not peaceful, not acceptant, but not hostile. "Gale," he mutters. "Lucky fellow—he's got her. She's got him."

Seeing this as a chance to slowly ease him out of his icy reverie, I rest a hand lightly on his forearm. "Peeta, how did you meet Katniss? What did she look like when you were both younger?"

"She was one of the shortest girls in her class. She had a timid look about her, but a resolute gleam in her eyes, as if she held her heart tightly in her clasped hands. She stood up when her name was called at roll call. When the teacher asked us kids if…if we knew the valley song—_aah!_"

His reflections are cut off by an outburst that tears from his throat. He clutches the gravel in handfuls, kneeling upon the stones and rocking back and forth, his pale face contorted and teeth gritted. He covers his ears—"No! Run! Save yourself! _Run!_" and I draw back, astounded at the passion in his tortured voice.

He straightens, then, and sits up, gasping. His eyes are distant and wild. It takes him a minute to calm down.

"What were you going to tell me, Peeta, about Katniss singing?" I venture cautiously, my nerves shredded.

He looks at me sadly, and then the emotion leaves his ashen face. "The teacher asked us if we knew the valley song. Her hand flew up, darted up in the air like a bird…_RUE!_" Again, his hands clench and he waits, lost in memories.

Who is Rue? Oh—I remember: the little girl whom Katniss loved. The wee one who sang and trilled and bled and died...

Peeta seems unlikely to say much more—his eyes are even further away than normal. But as I am about to apologize for taking up his time, he scratches at an unhealed bruise and continues with his flashback.

"She sang all of the verses in a clear, sweet voice that captured the attention of the entire class. The teacher had tears in her eyes—Katniss' own grey eyes held us all, rapt, as she stood on the rickety chair in front of the class. She sang of summer, of green leaves, of birds." His voice trails off, and I surreptitiously dab at a tear.

"I don't know what to think anymore," he confesses, miserably. "Sometimes I hate her, hate the Capitol, for pitting us against each other.

"Sometimes she swoops down in the form of a vulture, red eyes gleaming as she prepares to hurl Clove's knives at my battered form. One time she came with a basket of rolls and a small goat cheese. The rolls dissolved in my hands, leaving in their place clusters of nightlock.

"I hate her, love her, fear her. When she tries to talk to me, I can see the revulsion and pity in her eyes, and the sorrow. But she doesn't love me anymore—everyone thinks that I'd kill her if I could." He grimaces. "I probably would. It's too hard to see who she is when the images of a grinning murderess float across my eyes even in bright sunlight."

My eyes are stinging now, and irrepressible Delly is now silent, speechless. Her best friends are broken.

Peeta sighs and turns frost-cold eyes upon my burning face. "Is Gale talking to her? What does he say?" I don't know. I do know. I wish I didn't know. I can't tell him. Gale…loves her. This won't be easy for any of them. Life…

"He's trying to draw her out of her shell," I start, but Peeta cuts me off. "I know," he snaps, "and I should be grateful that he's trying to help her. But I hate him for it. I hate her for it."

And then tears are dripping—his tears—and he's again rocking back and forth on his knees. Whatever vision he's seeing is knowing away at his sanity now, because he growls and makes moaning noises, alternately pleading with the Capitol and cursing out the President, the Games, the poor, dead tributes…

Then all is still, and he looks into my eyes again. "Delly, remind me what Katniss looked like when she came back from the Cornucopia with the antidote for my leg." My brows shoot upwards again. The antidote? What memory can that trigger? My own memory of that incident on film is hazy.

"I believe that she looked worried, and exhausted too. She staggered towards the cave opening muttering under her breath, half delirious with pain and shock. Maybe emotional shock—" but then I clamp my lips shut. No need to talk about emotional shock in front of a shattered wreck of an ex-tribute.

"Strands of hair were flying out of her braid. She fumbled with the backpack before managing to remove the needle. It took her a couple of seconds to position it before injecting the medicine into your arm. And then…" I pause, struggling to recollect the details.

"She…her eyelids drooped and she tried to grasp your hand, but fell over onto her side. Blood was dripping down her forehead. You woke up a couple of hours later and washed off her forehead." My voice is a wreck now.

Peeta nods. "Thank-you, Delly." I nod in return, feeling wretched and miserable for the both of them, for all three of us. Four of us, including Gale. Oh, make it fifty of us. One hundred. We're all a sorry mess jumbled into barracks and crammed into uniforms.

Let's pray that we win. Win quickly, before any more hearts get smashed.


End file.
